Arming the King
by Andi Horton
Summary: Determined to fight with a sword that truly fits him, King Edmund learns of one that might suit and journeys to find it.
1. Purpose

Arming the King

Purpose

O0O0O0O

_Arma virumque cano_

—_Virgil's Aeneid_

O0O0O0O

With a flash of bright steel and the soft, shuffling chink of well-made mail, the knight in the courtyard spun to meet his opponent. He raised his sword to block the attack, then swung to deliver a stunning blow— only to slip, lose his footing and stumble. At once his opponent lowered his sword and stepped back, and the fallen knight, grumbling under his breath, got his feet under him, stood, and pushed back the visor of the light helmet he wore as a face guard.

"Not again, Ed!" Peter, High King of Narnia, slid down from his vantage point on a low wall to confront his brother Edmund. "You're not clumsy; what's tripping you up like this?"

"It's no good," Edmund turned to face Peter in open frustration, "I can't make it come right, it's the same as always. There's just something in the sword that pulls me off centre."

"Then we'll try another. Again." Peter looked unperturbed, and nodded to the schooling-master who had been serving as Edmund's opposition. Edmund pulled a face but complied; the sword he held joined four others he had already rejected, and before the sun began to sink in the sky, he had turned down seven more.

"I don't understand," Edmund scowled, as he and his brother finally took their leave of their schooling-master and headed into the castle to join their sisters for the late afternoon meal. "I can't find one that just _fits_. You fit yours perfectly; Father Christmas knew what he was at, when he gave you Rhindon. If I found something even half as good, I'd be satisfied; how can it be so difficult?"

"Perhaps it's the style," Peter suggested, holding open the door that led to the small chamber where the new monarchs took what few private meals they had. The table was laid with a lovely tea, awaiting the enjoyment of the four new rulers. "Didn't you say that sword you held last year at the Battle of Beruna felt right? Why not use that one?"

"It was destroyed." Edmund kicked a table leg just as the Queens Susan and Lucy entered. Susan, catching sight of the kick, frowned.

"Edmund, really, please— _not_ the furniture."

"Sorry," he said, and tried hard to look it. "I just . . . this problem with the swords isn't getting any easier."

"Must you have a sword that's particularly your own?" Susan wondered, as Lucy raced to claim her seat and Peter escorted Susan to her place. Edmund said yes, he really did.

"I don't much care to use them," he admitted, "but I'm King; if I lead charges into battle I need something to fight with, don't I?"

"You could use a spear, like the Southern warriors do," Lucy suggested, surveying the offering before them with great satisfaction. "Mmm, raspberries. Is there cream?" There was, and these both occupied the little Queen as Edmund replied to her suggestion.

"I could, I suppose, but a spear is such a tricky thing. It gets lost so easily; if you throw it you'll possibly never get it back, and even thrusting-spears aren't an easy proposition, since if you stick a fellow with it and he pulls away before you can pull it back— oh, sorry, Susan," as his older sister turned quite green, and set down the piece of bread she had been buttering. "I forgot." For Susan had laid a very strict rule that there was to be no discussion of sticking people with swords, spears, arrows or any other like weaponry when they were at the dinner table.

"Quite all right," Susan said faintly, and studied her half-buttered bread with great regret.

"Besides," Peter put in, directing his remark at Lucy as he piled his plate with sandwiches and cakes, "it's sort of a tradition for Kings to carry swords and shields, so it's important that Edmund have a sword of his own. But it's also important he feels comfortable wielding it, so he can't make the decision lightly."

"What about the one you used—" Lucy began, and Edmund shook his head.

"Peter said the same. It was destroyed. For over a year now I've been using a rubbishy one they pulled out of the armoury for me; oh," at seeing some confusion on Lucy's face, "it's not a rubbishy sword, but it's rubbish as _my_ sword. It does the job well enough, but I want one I really feel comfortable working with. It's much like when you ride a horse; they all do basically the same thing if you train them properly, but when you find that one that fits you so well you feel you've found a sort of second skin, that you're almost certain you know what it will do even before it does, that knows you well enough to know what you'll ask of it even before you do . . ."

"I see," said Lucy, who had only just found such a horse of her very own, and looked very solemn. "Well, can't you find a sword that's like the one you used in the battle?"

"I asked around after it was ruined," Edmund picked at a cream cake he would ordinarily have swallowed in one bite. "Apparently it's a style they used hundreds and hundreds of years ago, but you can't find anywhere anymore."

"Surely that can't be true, if that one still existed," Susan observed, having at last recovered herself enough to pick up the bread and finish buttering it. "If there was one, there must be more."

"Oh, yes, I suppose," Edmund acknowledged. "But I expect they're all buried in everyone's armouries somewhere, and since most everybody has only just come home to find their armouries for themselves, they aren't likely to even know they have them."

He was referring to their endeavour of one year before, when all four monarchs had set out to find the descendants of the landowners who had fled Narnia at the start of the reign of a wicked enchantress. Now largely restored and made habitable once more, the grand old manor homes, small castles and other properties were home to many newly-restored noble families, all of them just happy to have a roof over their heads before the first snowfall. As Edmund had observed, they were likely all just settling in, and probably hadn't any intimate knowledge of their own holdings just yet.

"Still," Peter said thoughtfully, "it's a good point. There must be some out there . . . don't such old swords normally have legends told about them? I have some idea that they do."

"Only the magic ones, I think," Lucy said, finally making an end of her raspberries and cream, and surveying the other treats the table had to offer. "And I'm not sure there are such things as magic swords, really; not even in Narnia."

"But might even a normal sword have legends and stories told of it, if the man who wielded it was one of valour?" Susan suggested, finishing her bread and, having gained some confidence in her stomach, starting on a very small biscuit. "And surely even after so long, some of those stories must still be known; that's one thing you can't kill, a story."

"It would be worth at least asking somebody, don't you think, Ed?" Peter said, and Edmund, feeling slightly cheered at the thought, said yes, it would be, and was on the verge of saying he would do just that when Lucy upset her tea, causing all four to leap up from the table, but not before they and a plate of buns got very soggy indeed. In the process of cleaning up (during which two other cups were overturned) it was no wonder that all save Edmund forgot about the prospect of searching for his sword.

O0O0O0O

Once tea was done with, Edmund was able to break away from his siblings and head through the castle on his own. He didn't hesitate, but walked directly to the armoury, where the officer and clerk who shared joint charge of the armoury were hard at work, cataloguing a series of new weapons that, to Edmund's relatively-untutored eye, looked much the same as all the other pieces. Yet the officer and the clerk seemed thrilled with these new acquisitions, and were so enthralled by their treasures that they didn't even look up until Edmund cleared his throat three times and knocked on the inside of the door with considerable force.

"Your Majesty!" the officer was the first to look up, and snap to attention. The clerk, considerably more aged and slightly deaf, looked up only when the officer did, and then quickly bowed. "Forgive us, we—"

"—were busy," Edmund finished, smiling. "No, that's all right; these are new, are they?"

It was really the wrong thing to say; they were, Edmund learned, new pieces indeed, and they were so much more than that, too. Every dimension, quirk, flaw and attribute of each piece was listed at length and repeated in detail. The design attributes of the newly-crafted weapons were held up for the King's baffled scrutiny, and the historic charms and flaws of older pieces were also pointed out for his consideration. This, at least, was the opening Edmund was looking for; with as much tact as he could manage, he steered the discourse away from the weapons at hand to his own purpose in approaching them. Explaining the connection he had felt with the sword he wielded at Beruna, Edmund asked if they knew of style he meant and if they knew of any others like it still in existence.

"Ah," said the clerk, when the King had at last stopped speaking.

"Oh," sighed the officer, and exchanged glances with the clerk.

"Well," said the clerk, "it's a proposition."

"A proposition indeed," the officer nodded solemnly. "A fine sword, it was. I remember it well. A fine old style; craftsmanship of that sort hasn't been seen in . . . oh, what would you say, Tirtel?"

"A millennia, at the least, Herman," Tirtel, the clerk, said solemnly. "A millennia, to be sure. I do say our kind—" for Tirtel was a Dwarf— "are the best metal smiths there are, but that's not to say our own ancestors couldn't have taught us a thing or two."

"Back, they say, when the craft was pure," Herman, a big, barrel-chested officer recently arrived from Galma, explained, "the swords as were made then . . . ah, your Majesty, it would take your breath away. Not a week since they'd been born of the earth and already the Dwarfs were hard at it, fashioning some of the finest arms you've ever seen, and they've been at it ever since."

"But the first hundred years, Sire," Tirtel explained earnestly, "oh, the first hundred years, they were the finest. You have not seen finer craftsmanship than you will see in the swords, the crowns, the jewellery— all pieces that were made in those first hundred years. And your sword that you lost at Beruna, Sire, was one of their lot."

"Oh," said Edmund faintly, and felt a sense of hopelessness overwhelming him. "But . . . well, it was a miracle, then, surely, that it survived as long as it did."

"Oh, not at all," Herman negated, shaking his heavily-bearded head with great solemnity. "It's part of the craft, you see; the metals that were mined in those first hundred years were young, and new; something to do with the magic of the place, I expect. Anyhow, those swords hold up better than any you'll see made to this day. It was the Witch's own wand what did yours in, was it not, Majesty?"

Edmund admitted it had been, and Herman nodded knowingly.

"Yes, well, there's no poison like dark powers, is there? Not ten thousand years could do to a sword what a second's worth of evil could; a pity, that, as that was a powerful good sword. But it's another like it you're after, then?"

Edmund said that it was. "But are there any you know of?" he wondered. "Surely there must be some still out there, but . . . do you actually know of any?"

No answer was immediately forthcoming. Instead, Tirtel and Herman exchanged solemn glances and retreated to a large tome shelved with others much like it in the corner of the armoury. Between them the wizened little Dwarf and the massive, broad-shouldered, bearded officer flipped through the heavy book, Tirtel perusing the pages as Herman balanced the book in his broad palms. At last the clerk gave a small cry of satisfaction, read rapidly, then nodded at Herman to shut the book, which was accomplished with a loud bang.

"Now, then, Sire," Tirtel beamed, hurrying back across the floor of the army, with Herman in tow, "we may have come across something. There is a small keep just three leagues to the west of here, a handsome piece of property, with a small wood and a fine lake. It was last the home of one Sir Roland, a good knight, and by all accounts as worthy a man as ever was. He was one of the last to serve Her Majesty, Queen Swanwhite, and is believed to be one of the few who know the true story of what befell that good Queen."

"I see," said Edmund, who didn't, really. Tirtel beamed.

"The sword of Sir Roland," he said, "was renowned in Narnia. It was handed down to him through his father's line, of which Sir Roland was the last. And, as with all humans who live in Narnia, Sir Roland was a descendant of those two humans who first ruled Narnia."

"You mean—" Edmund started, and Tirtel's beam broadened to utter brilliance.

"Yes, Majesty," he said, and looked so happy that he hardly seemed to be a Dwarf at all, "Sir Roland's was the favoured —the first— sword of King Frank of Narnia."

"And— it's still there?" Edmund was stunned. "At the keep, I mean, the sword . . . it's just . . . been there? All this time?"

"Ah," said Tirtel, and a slight shadow crossed his leathery face, "yes, well . . . that's where the difficulty enters into it."

"Story gets a bit murky, like," Herman put in dolefully. "Seems Sir Roland didn't bring his sword with him when he come into the service of the Queen. Seems he shut it up on his property, somewhere near the lake."

"Where?" Edmund asked warily. "Not _in_ the lake, surely?"

"Oh, no, no," Tirtel said quickly. "Surely not. Most unwise, putting a sword in a lake, most detrimental to the sword. But the legend is not very clear, I am afraid . . . simply that the sword was shut up securely, as Sir Roland was determined no forces would take it and use it for evil. As far as anybody knows, the sword has yet to be discovered, and so . . . presuming your Majesty was not averse to the task of searching for it, it is there for the taking."

"I . . . well, I'll have to think about it," Edmund said cautiously. "I thank you for your time, Sirs; don't let me keep you from your work any longer." And, with further appropriate parting salutations, the King took his leave of the armoury's inhabitants and returned to his schooling-master to practice some more.

It didn't go well. He was knocked down five times inside of a quarter-hour, and though this is par for the course when a young man —still not much more than a boy, really— is learning to fight, it gets a little trying for a young King who has been fighting for over a year, especially when he can put his finger on the exact reason for each failure. And only one of them, he knew, was really wholly his own fault.

"It's bad form, isn't it, to always blame one's sword for one's failings?" he breathed, as the schooling-master himself, normally the first to push the Kings to keep trying, finally firmly insisted that they take a short rest.

"Only when it is done to cover the faults of the fighter," the master said gravely. Unlike the Centaur who had first taught Edmund to wield a sword, this schooling-master was human, a man called Fergal. Fergal was a hard-bitten soldier brought back from the south-western wilds of Archenland and Peter and Edmund both worked hard to earn even a word of praise from him, which meant that the words Fergal spoke now stunned Edmund.

"You are not a bad fighter, Sire; you are still raw, but your form is solid, and will be built upon in time. As you grow to manhood you will gain height, and your shoulders will broaden; your reach will increase, and so will your strength. You will be a formidable fighter, King Edmund; but none of this will happen if you do not trust in your sword."

"Then . . . you think I need a new one too?" Edmund stammered, and Fergal considered.

"It is my belief that you could, with dedication and practice, learn to fight with any sword, my King; such is the way men's minds and bodies are made. But to fight with excellence you will need a sword you can trust, and clearly, such a sword is not to be found in our armoury. I only hope it can be found within our borders, else you will have a difficult time of it indeed." And on those words he abruptly ended the lesson, walking away from the yard and the young King.

Edmund did not wait long; no sooner had Fergal passed from sight than did the King rush across the yard as well, heading for the back entrance to the stables. There, he accosted the Head Groom with great impatience.

"I need my horse readied," he said, "at once. I ride to the west."

O0O0O0O

O0O0O0O

**A.N.:** Well, this is another one of those mostly out-of-nowhere pieces, inspired wholly by (oh, just guess) a song by Heather Dale. This one was called _Kingsword_, and it's lovely; my personal preference is for the remixed version, found on her CD _The Hidden Path_, but I do recommend either version.

Not much else to say except that this one is probably going to be a three-part story, since I don't think I can manage it in two parts the way I initially planned, and the next part will be up shortly; a week at most, likely much less. And, of course, Narnia and its best-known inhabitants are not mine, they are wholly the creations of CS Lewis. I just like to give them all sorts of friends to play with, and make their lives generally difficult.


	2. Journey

Journey

O0O0O0O

"_You ask of my companions. Hills, sir, and the sundown, and a dog . . ."_

—_Emily Dickinson_

O0O0O0O

For all that his own mind was made up about his small-scale quest, Edmund found his brother alarmingly difficult to convince. When told of the proposed journey, Peter pulled dreadful faces and hemmed and hawed and said well, it was nice to see Edmund so excited about a thing, to be sure, but didn't he think the whole thing a bit of a stretch?

"And to leave in the evening, for a part of the Kingdom we still don't know very well . . ." the High King turned a beseeching look on his sister, who sat in the small chamber with him, listening to the exchange with bright-eyed, quiet interest. Susan, Peter felt, would see the sense in what he said, surely . . . but Susan surprised him.

"You don't mean to journey back tonight as well, of course," she said, and somehow it was in no way a question. Edmund shook his head.

"No, of course not," he said. "I thought I would make camp in the grounds of the old keep; it will scarcely matter if the place is a ruin, as I won't need anything like a bed— just shelter from the wind, and a place to build a fire."

"Quite sensible," Susan approved. "But as it so happens, it's not a ruin; not anything like. Lucy and I looked in on all the properties in the Western Wood, of course —you remember, Peter, that Hag and her Minotaur set on us both and you were in a dreadful state for weeks— and I remember the Lowland Keep well. It's in fine condition; I remember thinking it was a pity there was nobody to claim it."

"That's another thing, what of the question of ownership?" Peter demanded. "I've said already that I don't want us to be the sort of Kings and Queens who go marching into peoples' homes and demanding to be put up for the night; that's quite bad enough, but what of this sword? Surely somebody has a claim to it."

"Yes; _we_ do," Edmund nodded. "There are no heirs, so his properties revert to the crown. The sword is ours, and if it exists, and if I find it, and if it suits me even half as well as the one I lost at Beruna, I ask your leave to claim it."

Peter said he thought that sounded like an awful lot of ifs, but Edmund remained undeterred. Susan, too, was staunchly, surprisingly, in support of her younger brother's venture and, as was often the case with Susan, not in the least shy about telling them where she stood on the matter.

"You already have your sword, Peter," she said firmly. "You are well matched to Rhindon; it seems the height of unfairness that you would deny Edmund the chance to find a sword that suits him in the same way."

"But . . . the time of day," Peter seemed to struggle to understand Susan's acquiescence as much as anything else. "It's a terrible time to set out on a journey, surely. After all, it's autumn now; it will be dark soon."

"Not before I get there," Edmund maintained. "It's just three leagues to the west. I'll be riding toward the sunset, Peter; I'll make it in time. Irra is saddled already, and fresh; he'll have no trouble making the journey."

"Well, if you are to be so set on it," Peter frowned, "then you must least take somebody along with you. Fergal, perhaps."

Edmund considered, then shook his head. "No, somehow it . . . it doesn't fit. I'll take Lobie," he decided. Peter blanched.

"You want the _dog?_ Edmund—"

"That sounds quite practical," Susan decided, interrupting with such grace that it hardly seemed an interruption at all. "Don't you think so, Peter? Who could be more loyal to Edmund, after all? And Lobie has proven himself a formidable adversary, when occasion has demanded it of him; I should think Edmund would be quite safe with him. Why not allow it?" And there was something in the way she looked at him that made Peter squirm dreadfully, and feel as if all his bluster had been pierced, exposing the groundless fears and reservations that lay beneath. If you happen to have an especially perceptive mother, you will know exactly how he felt.

"Very well," he said, "Lobie, then; and your word, Edmund, that you will ride directly to the site, make your camp and not search until tomorrow. The wood is, I think, as safe as men can make it, but that's not to say there aren't still those within it that would balk at doing you a harm."

"Cheery, Pete," Edmund observed dryly, but gave his solemn word all the same, and an especially theatrical bow to Susan, who smiled in great amusement and told him to have a care.

"We will take it as a personal insult," she told him in mock severity, "if you presume to get yourself injured on your first real quest."

Edmund would have answered her in the same teasing fashion had he not seen the real concern that lurked beneath her words. Instead of teasing, he simply assured her he would do all in his power to keep this from happening, and went in search of Lobie.

Unlike most castles, where the hounds are restricted to the kennels, Cair Paravel gave the hound pack the run of the castle. This is because, as Talking Hounds, they could generally be counted on to know the difference between when it was time to work and when it was time to relax. That said, hounds don't often care to relax, and so many of the pack found themselves preferring to occupy the kennel of their own accord, where they could send up the occasional howl without fear of disturbing anybody's sleep.

Lobie, however, was one of the few who still preferred the castle. The leader of the pack, he had taken great exception to both Susan and Edmund on the previous year's journey to Archenland, and could often be found following one or the other about the castle. Now, in searching for the dog, Edmund was unsurprised to find Lobie with Lucy, his head resting on the knee of the Queen who was seated in the chamber she shared with Susan between their sleeping quarters.

"Edmund!" Lucy looked up in warm welcome. "I was just about to come find you; Lobie says Susan and Peter are— but Edmund," the young Queen was on her feet in an instant, a frown pulling at her forehead, "what's wrong?" For her brother's expression was one of resigned apology that she knew far too well; Lucy, Edmund knew, would want to come, but Lucy simply could not be allowed to do so. Not this time.

As gently as he knew how, Edmund explained to both his sister and Lobie exactly why he had sought them out, and why he needed the hound at his side. Lobie was delighted at the chance to be of service, but Lucy, as the King had known she would do, immediately demanded to come along. When Edmund refused her request she did not fly into a temper, but rather pursued him down to the stables with grim determination, listing the myriad reasons why she simply had to accompany him and why Edmund was a fool to not see it this way. It took Edmund the whole way down to the stable yard where his charger stood saddled at the ready, saddlebags packed with all necessary provisions for the journey, to convince his irate younger sister that what she proposed was simply not possible; he did not bother wasting time or breath attempting to convince her of why.

"But we'll be back home soon enough," he smiled, "truly, Lucy, I can't think it would take us more than a day; two, at the most. Now, really, dear, won't you please see if you can't go back inside and cheer Peter a bit? He looked even gloomier than you do now when I left him!" And, bestowing one swift kiss on his little sister's forehead, Edmund swung up into the saddle and started Irra out of the courtyard at a smart trot with Lobie at his side, leaving Lucy, scowling, behind him.

O0O0O0O

The problem, one soon finds, when travelling any distance in the company of a hound, is that silence is not likely to be the order of the day. Hounds are among the most loquacious of dogs, and, as they are constantly catching new scents, their generous natures demand that all the humans within earshot —poor, silly creatures with such terribly inferior noses— be immediately informed of the newest developments in the olfactory landscape. As they travelled down the Land Road that led from Cair Paravel to the mainland Edmund bore up under the narration with remarkable fortitude, but by the time he and Lobie had travelled almost all three leagues that separated the Cair from his destination, the King was certain he would never again look on the forest without seeing in it every bird, squirrel, rabbit and badger that Lobie had taken such pains to describe.

"Quail!" Lobie quivered, as they enjoyed the brief respite of a clear bit of path with almost no overgrowth. The final rays of the sun washed over the treetops, lighting the sky above their heads. "Quail, as I live and breathe, a . . . young hen, I think. Fine, fine things, quail; tasty, tender eating, and . . ." All at once he stiffened, lifting his head to scent the wind. His nose quivered and twitched, and a trembling eagerness suffused the muscular frame. "Stone, Sire!" He tipped his muzzle skyward in eager, keening bay. "Stone, and mortar; a home-home-home!"

"Well that's welcome news," Edmund said, looking down at the dog with fond exasperation. "All right, then, Lobie; set the pace."

Lobie sprang forward with much joy, his tireless legs eating up the little-tended path before him. Edmund guided Irra in the dog's wake, sending him over a fallen log, reining him in as they neared the crest of another ridge . . . and then stopped entirely at the sight that spread out before him.

Lowland Keep, as Susan had called it, looked nothing as Edmund had expected it to. When his sisters had busied themselves with recording the state of repair in which all of the Narnian properties had been found following the long winter, Edmund had found other things with which to concern himself. His knowledge of such things —those few properties that remained unoccupied, the people entitled to them either preferring not to return to Narnia or simply not existing at all— consisted almost entirely of his sisters' daunting reports and several leaks they had patched in the roof of their own castle.

He had not expected this— a virtually intact stone keep, rising from the verdant green banks on the far side of a sparkling lake. The whole scene was set like a jewel in the clasp of a mature forest, and Edmund, with renewed spirit, dug his heels at Irra and urged the horse down the hill, along the path that led into the forest. Had the story been a romantic ballad, such as those interminable epics of old, Edmund would have probably been the knight riding to his doom, lured by the draw of something too beautiful to be believed, and things would have gone very badly for him indeed. But there, in Narnia, with the remnants of the sunset splashing across the already sumptuous scene, gilding it to an impossible richness, Edmund was conscious of only a deep longing within him. A pull seemed to emanate from the lake, the woods around it and, most especially, the stone keep that overlooked the little valley. He could not explain it; he only knew that he was meant to be there, as soon and as swiftly as he possibly could.

He found Lobie waiting for him at the gate, the hound's bright pink tongue lolling comfortably from his mouth, his ribcage heaving beneath his velvety coat as he happily struggled to regain his wind.

"Most . . . exhilarating . . . ex—er—cise . . ." the hound wheezed, his tail flipping feebly in a determined attempt to display his enjoyment. Edmund found he had to smile at the sight as he swung down from Irra's saddle and contemplated the lowered gate.

"It was a bit of sport, wasn't it?" he observed, his eyes searching the walls for an entrance. "I think Irra— hah, there it is." He started for the foot-door that let all pedestrians into the castle courtyard as Irra, far too well-trained to wander off without a truly compelling reason, stood patiently and watched Lobie with polite disinterest.

Inside the narrow door, Edmund followed a short, dark corridor that opened on the other side of the wall in a small, overgrown courtyard. Evidently his sisters had decided to leave the trimming for another day, but they had cleared and oiled the mechanism that raised the portcullis, so Edmund had little trouble in setting the wheels in motion, raising the heavy gate and shouting for Lobie to enter, which the dog did. A whistle brought Irra as well, and then Edmund, mindful of Susan's concern, lowered the gate again and even took the trouble of closing and barring the foot-door he had used to gain access to the yard.

"If anybody in need should happen by," he informed Lobie, "we'll hear them out before we let them in, what?" And Lobie, who had unusually strong territorial instincts for a hound, agreed that this did indeed seem the prudent thing to do.

"Mind if I get in a bit of exploring, Sire?" he asked hopefully, his tail once more whipping his own flanks into a quivering frenzy. "This place smells a rare treat, you know; I can pick up their Majesties easily enough, the Queens, that is, and the pack they brought to help them, but there's older smells, too; folk who haven't been here for hundreds of years. I'd look on it as a sort of challenge, you see, so . . ."

"Yes, of course," Edmund said, relieved to get a moment's peace even if it did mean he'd likely have to put up with a wealth of exposition on the dog's return. "See what you can find." Then, as Lobie turned and sprinted off in eager pursuit of these scents, Edmund clucked at Irra and divested the horse of its tack so he could administer a proper walk and rubdown.

"Don't want you to get stiff, do we, poor fellow?" he murmured, and Irra, blessedly mute, simply tossed his head as if in agreement and condescended to be led around. By the time Edmund had brushed the charger's coat to a quiet sheen and saw the animal settled in the disused stable block, Lobie still had not returned. Edmund wasn't worried, though; he could hear Lobie's hunting prattle even from where he stood in the courtyard, the old stable water bucket in hand, as he hunted for the castle well.

It was a bit of a blow to find the grate across the well had rusted shut so securely that it would take more than Edmund's own strength to shift it, but Edmund caught up the bucket beside the well head in addition to as Irra's own bucket, and went down to the lake instead. The last traces of sunlight still bathed the farthest shores, but Edmund was too intent on his errand to notice the gilded ripples on the other side. Steering clear of the sections where the reeds grew deep in muck, Edmund found a part of shore that was pebbled over. The water that lapped there looked cold and clean, and he drew two bucketsful to take back to the castle.

Taking care to bar the foot-gate behind him once more, Edmund first returned to the stable, where he watered Irra. The charger plunged his nose deep into the water and sucked it down gratefully, accepting a fond pat from the King before Edmund took his own bucket back to the courtyard. There the boy set to building a fire with the very dry, old wood he found stacked on one inside wall, and as he worked, he could hear the occasional yelp of delight as the hound found another intriguing old odour, undisturbed for decades.

When Lobie at last returned to the courtyard, Edmund had a fire blazing away. The water had boiled nicely so he had made some tea and was now warming himself comfortably beside the flames, chewing on a bit of the dried meat he had brought for provision. He offered some to Lobie, but the dog declined the offering with impeccable manners.

"I found two mice and a rat," he explained. "Not my fare of choice, perhaps —I am," with great dignity, "no terrier— but quite filling, in their own way."

"I suppose they would be," said Edmund, and counted it among his many blessings that he had not Susan's weak stomach. He would happily have left it at that, but there was such pitiful eagerness in the hound's liquid brown eyes that he took pity on him and asked another question. "Find anything else of interest?" he wondered, and Lobie was at once all over quivers again.

"Most fascinating, this place," he panted, moving closer to Edmund so he did not have to roast his nose on the flames to look the King in the eye, "home to any number of people, at one time . . . I couldn't sort them all out, but I did determine quite a few. The top family, the sorts such as yourself and their Majesties, they lived in the dens up in that chamber, there," indicating, with an upward toss of his nose, a section very high up in the Keep, "and they were a fine lot; fine humans, indeed."

"Oh?" Edmund looked at his friend in amusement. "Can one tell character by scent, then? I never knew that."

"Well," said Lobie, oblivious to the gently teasing tone, "it can be done, though I will confess I'm not the best to do it. Oh, mine is a fine nose," with shameless pride, "but it's the sheep dogs you want to tell you who's a wolf and who's a sheep, if you catch my meaning."

"Wolves in human form smell like wolves that are animals?" Edmund asked, this time with real interest. Lobie said he understood that was much the way of it.

"They say there's something different in a fellow's blood if he means ill," the hound said, and settled down to scratch an ear with evident bliss. "Can't cotton to it, myself; fellow's got to be sweating terribly before I can be certain he's up to no good, but those sheep dogs, they'll cut a wrong 'un from a pack of a thousand. Marvellous chaps, though a bit too brainy for my liking . . . anyhow, no, I can't tell it that way. It's where they've been that lets me know what they were like."

"Oh?" Edmund found himself growing genuinely interested in spite of himself, sitting forward to face Lobie better. "What do you mean?"

"Well, they're like your sort," Lobie explained, settling into a recumbent position, resting on one side in a lazy semi-circle, "you know— always in where other fine folk wouldn't be. From what I can pick up of them, they spent as much time in the stables and the kitchens as they did in that grand hall where the best eating is. You won't catch those uppity, snarling —erm; what you folk call ladies— spending time in the kitchens, except to order the food, but the nice ones, they're down there all the time, offering to help, asking after the new pups —erm, children— and the like."

"I see," enchanted by the dog's assessment of the situation, Edmund leaned back against a nice, springy pile of overgrowth. He had spread his cloak over top of it so it served as a lovely sort of pillow, and he studied the stars winking above him as he considered Lobie's explanation. "So the noble family . . . they were everywhere, then, were they?"

"Oh, yes; the children down in the stables and the kennels, the menfolk out by the sty and the sheep barn, not just in the stables where their horses are kept, and the women . . . well, the women were everywhere. Have a hand in everything, all the best women do." The dog's tail thwapped lazily on the dead leaves of a century or more as he settled deeper in his chosen spot. "That's like your litter, Sire. Your sisters," with a yawn, "they're some of the best."

He may have inched a little closer to the King as he said this, so that his soft, warm coat was a reassuring pressure on the outside of Edmund's right leg, but it would be difficult to say; human protocol is tricky enough but dog protocol is positively intricate, and to accuse either Edmund or Lobie of something that either set of rules would have deemed improper might offend them both terribly. Suffice to say that as the stars overhead were joined in their number by a thousand others, the King of Narnia curled up in his cloak on a pile of leaves and fresh, springy green things that your mother would probably have pulled up in a heartbeat if she found them in her garden, and the happy, sleepy hound at his side cuddled just that much closer, enjoying the warmth of the human at his side.

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**A.N.:** I thought this would be wrapped in one part, and then I decided I could do it in two, and now . . . well. It will be done in three, of that I am quite certain!


	3. Triumph

Triumph

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"_A boy's hand will grasp it, a man's raise it high"_

—_Heather Dale's Kingsword_

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When morning came, Edmund woke with a stiff neck but no other ills. The cool, grey dawn had driven him to curl around the comforting warmth of Lobie as they slept, the embers of the previous night's fire offering precious little warmth to combat the chill autumn air. It was Edmund who stirred first, rolling onto his back and struggling upward into a sitting position. At feeling the sudden rush of cool air the dog woke as well, stretching luxuriously, struggling to his feet, giving a brisk shake and lifting his head to sample the morning breezes.

"We're alone, Sire," he observed, "quite alone."

"All for the best, I suppose," Edmund murmured, rubbing his neck gingerly. Since he had half-feared he would be set upon as he slept by whatever remnants of the Witch's army still dwelt in the woods, he considered a stiff neck much the better half of the deal. "I had better get that fire built back up, though; it's a bit brisk."

"Is it?" Lobie had already lowered his nose to the leaves and begun a cursory examination of the surrounding area. "Why, yes, I suppose it is . . . a good jog will shake that off, Sire. Nothing like a lovely jog. Shall we go for a run?"

"Maybe in a little while," Edmund, still engrossed in carefully propelling himself upward, stretching as he went, had to smile at the near-instant vigour of his travelling companion. "For now, I think we need to have our breakfast, and see about finding this sword."

"Yes, yes, the sword," Lobie sat back on his haunches and tilted his head in thoughtful consideration. "There were any number of the things in one of the rooms I found, all flung about . . . could it be there, do you think?"

"I don't think so, somehow," Edmund said, "it sounds a little too accessible. Let me just get this fire built up once more, and some water on for tea; then we can think about searching." So Lobie prowled about the yard, murmuring to himself about the wonders his nose found, as Edmund stirred the embers to life and set a few pieces of wood carefully atop the feeble flames. Then he took the well bucket, unbarred the foot-door and went back down to the lake.

Without the threat of oncoming dusk to hurry him, the King found he was at greater leisure to enjoy the sight of the lake itself. The early-morning chill was evident in the wisps of steam that curled up from the motionless waters, and the faint, pink glow of dawn was just visible above the highest treetops on the easternmost hill.

It seemed almost a shame, Edmund thought, to set so much as a ripple through the peaceful scene, but he saw no other way of collecting his water. So with as much care as he could manage, he located the same pebbled beach he had used the night before and dipped his bucket in to fill it. With a rush and a gurgle he brought it back up, and the dazzling shower of droplets set a thousand tiny circles pooling out along the water's surface below. Edmund was conscious of a moment's regret, but then, as he watched the ripples reach, stretch and soften as they moved over the lake, he forgot his dismay and simply watched them spread.

It was because he was watching the ripples so closely that he saw the other ripples begin; a new set, much stronger and larger than the modest disturbance created by his bucket, met and merged with his, swallowing them up. As far as Edmund could tell, they had begun near the southern shores of the lake where a series of rocks jutted out from the bank. A few scraggly pines clung tenaciously to the rocks, but for the large part they were bare, and cast heavy shadows over the water below. So dark was the water that Edmund was unable to see what had set the ripples in motion, though he strained his eyes for some time in the attempt. They were too large for a fish, and surely he would have noticed shorebirds by now . . .

A sudden prickle of unease assailed the King and, clutching his bucket tightly, Edmund set back for the foot-gate at a not-inconsiderable pace. Barring the foot-gate behind him, he crossed to the now-blazing fire and called out for Lobie to attend him.

"Can you catch wind of anything?" he demanded. "Anything, anyone . . . alive, out there?"

Lobie, delighted to be of service, scampered across the courtyard to the gate, lifted his head and delicately sniffed the breezes coming in off the lake. Edmund watched in apprehension, but at last the dog shook himself and sat back on his haunches to eye Edmund in polite confusion. "Nothing, Sire; a bird or two, but they're nested quite high, I believe; they smell of sleep. It's getting to be the resting time of year, you know."

"Yes, I know . . ." Edmund looked down at his bucket. "Well, if that's the case, there's nothing for it but to eat. Come have a bit of breakfast with me, and then we'll set to searching."

Lobie agreeably crossed to settle by the fire and share in the bread and dried meat Edmund doled out from his saddlebag. He declined to share Edmund's tea, but happily followed the King to the stable once their feast was complete so Edmund could feed and water Irra. Only once he was certain the horse had been properly seen to did the King consent to lead the way back to the courtyard, unbar the foot-door and step outside to view the lake once more.

"It's a handsome place," Edmund reflected, as he and Lobie began a slow circuit of the area.

"Is it?" Lobie looked around, politely intrigued. Dogs, you see, do not see things the way you and I do, in terms of loveliness or lack of beauty; dogs see things as good and friendly or bad and hostile. They also enjoy anything that has a very strong smell to it, too, of course.

"It is," Edmund promised. "There's a sort of natural symmetry to it, you see; the road leading down on the hill opposite the keep, the lake like a sort of . . . jewel in the centre. It's a shame there's nobody to live here; anyone would be proud to manage such a place."

"Well," said Lobie, rooting through some loose earth, "it does offer a lot in the way of smells, I will give it that—" and then he tensed, lifting his head, his nose quivering. Edmund looked down at him in dismay, expecting the dog to bolt at any moment.

"Not a rabbit!" he groaned, and Lobie, distracted, flicked an ear in irritation.

"Not a rabbit, a . . ." his nose twitched again. Edmund stood still, and at last the dog shook himself in bemusement. "Odd," he muttered. "Very odd." Then he trotted onward, once more immersed in his own exploration, leaving Edmund looking after him in exasperation; even Talking Hounds, I am afraid, are as distractible as their dumb counterparts.

"Lobie!" Edmund said, hurrying after him, "Lobie, wait. What did you think you smelled?"

"Oh, back there?" Lobie glanced back. "Nothing. That was the oddity of it; thought I heard something, but I couldn't have. Couldn't smell it, you see." For such is the logic of hounds; if it has no odour, then it must not exist.

"What did you think you heard?" Edmund pressed, and Lobie, already lowering his head to seek out greater intrigues, mumbled something into a bed of leaves that Edmund had to ask him to repeat.

"Heard something talking— hullo, _there's_ a rabbit!" and he was off like a shot, baying hysterically, leaving Edmund to stand alone on the path, one hand resting uneasily on the hilt of a sword he didn't trust as he circled very slowly, watching the woods and water around him.

He watched the water the longest. He couldn't have said why, exactly, except that now, looking at the lake, he felt as if something was watching him there. And if Lobie heard talking, but couldn't smell anything . . . There are only two talking things in all of Narnia that a dog can't scent, simply because they smell exactly like everything around them. Dryads and Naiads both, smelling only of what they are —trees and water— are undetectable to any dog, talking or otherwise. And it was the lake that Edmund felt was watching him. Cautiously, picking his footing with care, the King descended to stand at the shore of the lake and address it with all due respect.

"Sir, or Madam," he said solemnly. "I can well understand your caution, as it must have been some time since any stopped to speak with you, but I give you the solemn word of a King of Narnia that none shall do you harm if you choose to make yourself known."

There was, for a very long moment, nothing at all different about the lake or the woods around it. Then, with a gentle ripple and bubble of water, a soft sigh rose from a spot near the bank not far from Edmund's left.

"King?" The voice was light and silvery; a female, then. "Kiiing . . ." it was a giggle and a sigh all at once. A_ young_ female; young for a Naiad, anyhow. She didn't sound more than two hundred years old. The water rippled as she glided around the bank, a translucent, watery shape lifting from the still waters of the lake to take form as a slender, silvery . . . yes, definitely female. The form solidified; she was taking much more of an effort than most Naiads did when they formed and spoke with humans. Items that would serve as clothing came rushing up from the lake bed at her unspoken bidding, borne on unseen currents; freshwater pearls, delicate plants . . . she solidified, features taking shape, and looked as human as any Naiad could. She was exceptionally comely, and the way she tossed her hair and fluttered her newly-acquired eyelashes at him gave Edmund an awful idea that she knew it, too.

"Lady," he said politely, and bowed. "You honour me with your confidence; had I known the lake was inhabited, I would have paid my respects on my arrival yesterday."

She giggled. "I saw you," she informed him, and extended one arm to admire her shapely self. "I saw you ride in with your funny pets."

"Lobie," Edmund corrected her hastily, "is not a pet. He's a Talking Dog." This information seemed to carry little weight with the young mistress of the lake, however; so intent was she on inspecting her reflection in the waters around her that she didn't even look up to reply.

"He's a funny little thing. He drank from My lake."

"I'm sorry about that," Edmund said, and did feel guilty. After all, whether she was flighty or not, it was her home. "I also took some water for my horse, and myself; I do apologise."

"Oh," she beamed at him, "I don't mind about _you_. You're _handsome_. I like that. The silly ones who came after the thaw, they weren't interesting. _You're_ interesting."

"Silly— do you mean my sisters?" Edmund found that the more the Naiad spoke, the less he liked her. She beamed, and simpered, then frowned a little.

"The silly ones. They were too pretty. I don't like it when girls are too pretty."

This, Edmund felt, called for some sort of rebuttal, even if she was a lady. "They are Queens of Narnia, Madam; _your_ Queens. I must insist you show them all due respect."

Again, this remark seemed to carry little weight with the giggling creature in the water. "_I'm _pretty, don't you think?" she smiled, still studying herself in the water, fussing with her long, silvery hair. "So pretty . . ."

"Great galloping horny toads," Edmund muttered. If he hadn't been a knight and a gentlemen, he would probably have called her some rude names; he was certainly thinking of some. Instead, he called on all reserves of patience he had stored up over the years, and made the self-absorbed creature another courtly bow.

"Madam, might I have the honour of knowing the name of the lady of the Lowland Lake?"

"My name?" she beamed in delight. "Serena Summerstream. Isn't that pretty? Nobody else has a name as pretty as Mine. The handsome knight told Mother it was a pretty name. _I'm_ pretty," she added, with inescapable satisfaction. Edmund swallowed a very rude word.

"It is a very nice name," he said politely. "And— the knight? What knight is that?"

"The handsome one," Serena said dreamily. "I was just a summer current when the handsome knight lived here . . . he rode in and out on his funny pet, and he spoke with My parents sometimes. He was their cousin, you know," she giggled. "Or something. I didn't really listen . . . I only liked to listen when they talked about Me."

"I can see that," Edmund said, and meant it. "The knight . . . was it Sir Roland? Sir Roland, who was master of Lowland Keep, before the winter came?"

Names, however, did not seem to be Serena's strong point; not if they weren't her own, at any rate. The name Sir Roland did not seem to strike any bells. She draped a bit of pale, lacy green plant life more carefully along one arm.

"I could wear it like this," she reflected, "or maybe down My back. Wouldn't that be nice?"

"I . . . don't know," Edmund blinked, wondering if the long winter might somehow have affected the creature's mind. "But Serena, please, about this knight; was he here before the winter came? Just before the winter?"

Serena pouted at Edmund, as if to express her confusion that he didn't want to discuss the delightful subject of Her, but she did seem to make some effort to think about it.

"He left before Mother and Father did," she decided at last. "They were here when he told them about his funny toy, and hid it away. Then he left. Then the cold came. Then we all went to sleep, and when I woke up, everybody was gone."

"Oh . . . I'm sorry," Edmund said with great sincerity. He had already encountered things like this; when the Long Winter came everything had frozen, and the Naiads in streams and lakes had fallen asleep, but when things began to melt the Naiads had moved in the most accessible direction. Water levels always run high after a thaw, and some Naiads had travelled over what had once been dry land only to find themselves stranded when waters receded. Serena's family had apparently been one such. Serena, however, seemed to accept the King's apologies as a sort of tribute to her bravery and the enviable horror of her own personal tragedy.

"Thank you," she beamed, and Edmund began to wonder if any sword could be worth this.

"You mentioned that he told your parents about a toy. What toy?"

"Oh," Serena squinted at one pearl she cupped in her hand, "I don't know. A silly thing. A shiny thing. It wasn't very pretty. I didn't care about it."

"But did you see where he locked it up?" Edmund pressed, and Serena looked irritated.

"Why do you want to know about a silly old toy? It's not interesting. _I_ am interesting."

"You," Edmund said with great feeling, "are unforgettable. But I came here to find that silly toy, and I would consider it a great personal favour if you could tell me where I might find it."

Serena pouted a little, and made a show of being greatly put out, but nevertheless drifted back in the water a little way and indicated a bank of rock almost halfway around the lake.

"He put it in there," she said. "There are funny little caves inside. He and Father had a boring talk about where was safe, and they thought that there was safe. So he hid it there. I don't know _why_ you want it. It's not pretty. _I'm_ pretty."

"Yes, well, that must be a great comfort to you," Edmund sighed. "Now, how do I get into the caves?"

"You can swim," Serena beamed. "Come with me; I can show you where to go in!"

The water was cold. That was what Edmund forced himself to think about as he tugged off his boots, unbuckled his sword belt, and waded into the lake. The water felt like daggers striking him, and he forced himself to focus on the way it numbed him, rather than the mind-numbing chatter of the creature who reshaped herself into a current and bore him across the lake and then down, under water, into an alarmingly narrow entrance in the stone bank. The wet stone scraped at his arms, the blackness of the watery tunnel . . . he concentrated on all of it. Given that the alternative was to actually listen to Serena bubbling about her own general excellence, he felt that focusing on the cramped, flooded passage was by far the lesser of two evils. When at last his head broke the surface of the water and he sucked in a deep lungful of air, Edmund thought he had never been so glad to get out of the water in his life.

"You see?" Serena, solidified once more, minus a pearl or two, floated languidly in the dark pool as Edmund put a good three metres between himself and the girl, "it's so _boring_."

"You think so?" he asked, astounded. "It's amazing . . . look, here, the stalactites have grown right up to meet the— and here!" He turned around, heedless of his soaking jerkin, blouse and breeches as he examined the dimly-lit cave around him. "The water's been in here, at some point; you can see the dead plant life along . . . this is wonderful."

"Hmph," Serena, uninterested in a topic of conversation that did not concern her, rearranged her hair. Edmund, for his part, continued to explore, the little cave holding his interest in a way that a self-absorbed water sprite never could. It was surprisingly dry, considering that a fair sized portion of the floor was taken up with lake water. Could there be a natural vent of some sort? Had the cave, he wondered, been carved by the lake itself in ages past, or had it been there since the formation of the world? The stone walls were delightfully smooth, except where they dipped inward to form natural shelves and— Edmund stopped, and stared.

There, resting on one of the highest ledges as if it had been waiting patiently for his arrival since it was first laid to rest, was a sword. Still in its scabbard —how had that not rotted away?— the sword sat on the ledge with a sort of humble dignity. Edmund moved toward it, riveted by the quiet gleam of the hilt, the artistry and craftsmanship taking his breath away. Only as he lifted the sword from the shelf did Edmund notice the packet, a small leather square tied to the hilt with a stout cord. He slipped it off with care, and lifted the top flap. To his surprise, he found a piece of folded parchment within.

"How could Sir Roland have gotten this through the water?" the King wondered, holding up the parchment to examine it. "It would have been ruined, surely— come to it, how did he get the sword in here? It would rust over time if he swam in here with it; he must have known that."

"Oh," Serena blinked, "he didn't swim. He came through the dry way."

Edmund was conscious of something very like anger, only blanker, and bigger, and greatly enriched with disbelief. "The dry way?"

"Yes, the way where the light comes from," Serena waved a well-shaped hand in the direction of the far wall, and Edmund, following her gesture, saw that yes, she was right, the dim glow in the cave, which he had assumed came up through the water, originated from that direction.

"You mean I could have come in through there?" he demanded, and Serena blinked.

"Well, yes, but then you couldn't have come in with Me!"

If Edmund said something rude at that point, it was said so softly that nobody but he could hear it, and in any event, he was very possibly justified. Giving Serena a very curt bow and thanking her for her exceptionally enthusiastic assistance, he squelched away from the pool of water, sword and leather packet of document in hand, to follow the faint glow of daylight.

The tunnel that led to the outside was longer than the underwater one, but it was dry and silent, save first for the wet sound his feet made as they slapped on the stone floor, then for the crunch of leaves under his feet as things grew brighter and the stone walls narrowed. In fact, Edmund tried very hard not to be alarmed at how narrow things became. By the time he rounded one final bend and found himself facing a dense thicket of overgrowth, the walls had become so close that they rubbed against the shoulders of his wet blouse. If he had been a grown man he would have had to walk sideways to get out; as it was, it was just as well that he was still a boy, since he needed both hands to push aside the tangle of plant life, squeeze out of the narrow cleft in the rock, and find himself standing on a rock that was just a short distance above the forest floor. Deciding that the clever thing to do would be to dry himself off as soon as possible, the King tucked the sword under his arm and hurried back to the castle.

Leaving the foot-door open for Lobie whenever the hound chose to return, Edmund crossed directly to the still-blazing fire, stripped off his wet things and laid them out to dry, wrapping his cloak around himself. As the fire heated and dried the garments at his side, Edmund carefully set the sword down beside him and opened the leather packet that had been tied to its hilt since before the Long Winter began. The document was folded three times, and when Edmund opened it, he found large, well-formed script on one side. It was somewhat faded, but with the early morning sun at his back, he was able to make the words out.

_To the holder of this letter,_

_my commendations. Gaining entrance to the lake cave took more than the usual brand of courage; the charms placed upon it to conceal its entrance and protect its contents would not have permitted accidental discovery. For your labours you have found the sword I concealed there that it might not fall into unworthy hands._

_I leave tomorrow to take up service to my Queen, and that you now read this missive means I have died in my defence of her. My service to the Crown has consumed my life, and I have produced no heir to follow in my path. My lands will pass to those who succeed me, but to you, Adventurer, I bequeath this sword. It was forged in the fires of a new world for Narnia's first and finest King, a man whose lineage I am proud to claim._

_May you, Adventurer, be worthy to wield it, and a fit master for the sword of a King._

_Yours faithfully,_

_Sir Roland of Lowland Keep_

_Knight of Narnia_

When he had read the letter twice through, Edmund folded it carefully, and set it to the side. Then, wrapping his cloak around him a little tighter, he turned his attention to the sword. In the rising morning sun, it glowed with a sort of tranquil elegance he hadn't been able to see when he was in the cave. The hilt was unadorned and worn slightly smooth from the handling of several centuries. Carefully, tentatively, Edmund wrapped his hand around it, and released the blade from the scabbard.

As easily as if it had been sheathed yesterday, the sword slid free. The blade was slim, the sword light, the balance exquisite. The young King hefted it, testing the weight, waking to the feel of it. It was the way he remembered the sword he had wielded at Beruna, yet even more so; his training now showed, as he understood the sword in a way he would not have done a year before. He appreciated the make of it, and recognised its simple perfection for the rarity it was. No jewels poked or scraped his hand, no elaborate carvings on the hilt or pommel got in his way . . . his hand fit the grip with a surety he had not expected. This was _his_ sword.

Edmund was still examining his find when he heard a scrabbling at the foot-gate, and looked up to see Lobie come crashing into the courtyard, his mouth full of boot leather, Edmund's belt wrapped around his body and his paws tripping over the sword that was buckled to it. When he saw the King sitting on the ground, he spat out the boots, wiggled free of the belt and went bounding across the yard to leap on Edmund and scour the boy's face with his tongue, much the way all dogs greet those they love best when they haven't seen them for a time.

"Sire!" Lobie panted. "Sire, I found your things by the water, I followed your scent to the lakeside . . . I feared you had met with a terrible end!"

"Well," said Edmund, thinking of Serena Summerstream, "very nearly. But look, here!" he held up the sword. "I found it!"

Lobie, appropriately impressed, sat back to admire the weapon. "It's what you came to find, Sire," he observed, and Edmund agreed that it was. "But then, should I have not brought back the other? Was it a human ritual of some sort, casting off the old one to acquire the new?"

"No," Edmund laughed, "no, I just needed to take it off to get into the water. We'll take it back with us; somebody else may need it. But not I." And he again contemplated his new sword with a rush of pride and satisfaction.

There remains little more to be said of King Edmund's first visit to Lowland Keep. Soon after Lobie returned, a touch confirmed for the King that his clothes were dry and ready to be worn. Then, once he was dressed, Edmund pulled on his boots and belted his new sword to his waist. The fire was stamped out, the saddlebags packed, and Irra was fetched and saddled. Edmund led his horse out through the main gates and shut them carefully behind him. Lobie ran in delighted circles, watching Edmund fasten his cloak at his throat and then mount, Irra prancing beneath him in anticipation of the run that was to come.

"Now, Sire?" Lobie quivered, his nose turning East. "Home?"

Edmund smiled down at the eager dog, and let his hand rest lightly on the hilt of the weapon that now rode at his left thigh. It felt as if it had always been there; he resolved that from now on, it always would be.

"Yes, Lobie," he confirmed, gathering the reins and sparing the lake a not entirely ungrateful glance, "home."

And in three hours' ride, they were.

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**A.N.: **This chapter, plus a summation of everything that happened in the first chapter were originally supposed to be the whole story; it was my idea of a Halloween-type spoof. But then things got very serious and quest-like so I wanted to see where that could go first before I brought it back to this! Thank you so much to everybody who has taken the time to leave feedback, I do so enjoy hearing your thoughts, opinions and suggestions.

As mentioned before, I lay no claim to the Chronicles of Narnia, Heather Dale's song _Kingsword_, nor even to two choice phrases in Sir Roland's letter. Which phrases those are, however, is really not important. I promise.


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